


Broken

by rosetyler39



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying Sherlock, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9527753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosetyler39/pseuds/rosetyler39
Summary: When John is found after weeks of being missing, it is discovered that the damage to both his body and his mind may be irreparable. But it seems as if John isn't the only one who has some healing to do.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first chapter months before the second, and it really shows. Despite this, I hope you will still enjoy the story. :)

Lestrade's chin bobbed against his chest as he struggled to stay awake, wanting to hold on until he received any updates. But it was pretty damn hard, considering the fact that he had gotten so little sleep over the past month or so. He had mainly been functioning on caffeine and pure willpower thus far. Yet he was hardly thinking about sleep; his mind was focused on John.

Weeks ago, the doctor had been working a late shift at the clinic, as everyone had confirmed, and simply didn't return home. He had just vanished.

Lestrade had really been concerned about how Sherlock would react, given the man's overbearing possessiveness of his flatmate, but was surprised by how nonchalant the detective actually was. Granted, obviously worried, but calm and collected; so Lestrade stayed the same way.

That attitude, however, soon changed, as hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks.

That was when both he and Sherlock really started to worry and began to desperately rack their brains to figure out who had made off with John (as that was clearly what had happened) and why.

Well, both questions were quickly and easily answered by Sherlock:

Moriarty.

It should have been a dead giveaway to Lestrade, really. But, in the inspector's defence, he wasn't exactly attuned to the level of Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock and John.

The only question left unanswered was where Moriarty had John hidden.

Quite certainly, the thought had crossed Lestrade's mind that John might already be dead, but he knew simply suggesting such an outcome would result in unmentionable harm to his body and/or self-esteem dealt by the doctor's loyal sociopath. So he kept his mouth shut, playing the part of concerned friend and detective inspector.

They had searched tirelessly for five weeks, turning over every stone and still coming up empty-handed; no puzzles, no clues, no witnesses or connections.

There was absolutely nothing; it was apparent that Moriarty was simply relishing in Sherlock's relentless search for John Watson; yet Sherlock still looked, his determination simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying in Lestrade's eyes.

Never before had the inspector seen the high-functioning sociopath exhibit such loyalty and love; nor did he expect it. No one did. Even Donovan had commented on it, replacing her typical snide and vicious tone with a softer, more sympathetic one.

As the search dragged onto its sixth week and Sherlock finally collapsed from exhaustion, Lestrade put his foot down and forced the detective into a cab to 221B, convincing the younger man that he was 'no help to John dead'. Reluctantly, Sherlock obliged, but was intent on getting only a few hours' rest before jumping back on the case.

That was yesterday.

Now, Lestrade was slowly dozing off in his office chair, watching his computer screen and phone  through lazily drooping lids and bloodshot eyes.

He woke up to the pain of hitting his forehead on his desk.

"What the hell...?" he slurred.

"Greg," a firm, female voice said from the doorway. "Go home; get some rest."

Lestrade shook the fog from his brain and stared at Sally Donovan.

"I can't," he insisted. "I promised Sherlock I'd wait here until I heard something."

"The Freak isn't the boss of you," Sally said. "Go home and sleep; you haven't gotten any in a while."

"I..." Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. "...I am exhausted."

"Exactly." Donovan tossed the inspector the keys to his flat. "You dropped these in the plant by the stairwell."

Lestrade caught the keys with a flustered expression.

"Oh."

"Mhm." Sally spun on her heel and walked out the door. "I'll tell you if I hear anything.”

And so, against his clouded judgement, Lestrade left the Yard, homeward bound.

His flat was only a short walk from his office; about fifteen minutes if he cut through a back street. He thought it pointless to spend money on cab fare. So he pushed past pedestrians as he crossed the street, nearly tripping over his own feet a few times, and hurried down the sidewalk. With a few turns, he finally found himself strolling through his shortcut, a rather worn down street, wrinkling his nose at the smell of offending body odour and animal excrement that wafted through the area.

"Spare some change?" a grease-covered man in a loose-fitting hoodie asked him.

Lestrade nodded tiredly and slipped a few coins into the eager hand of the poor man.

"God bless you, mate," he smiled at the inspector who simply kept walking.

A few more minutes now.

He walked a bit further down the street, realising with disgust that he was passing an alleyway full of trash.

He also realised that there was a sizeable group of homeless men and women surrounding the dumpster in that alley; about five or six of them. They were all talking to each other in hushed whispers, some looking scared, others looking like they were planning something.

"What's going on here?" Lestrade inquired, aware of the abnormality of the situation.

"What's it to you?" a particularly starved woman hissed at him.

"Police," Lestrade flaunted his badge. "Now what is going on?"

"There's a body here, officer," another man interjected. "In that bin there. We're worried someone's murdering the lot of us."

"A body?" Lestrade groaned internally. This was the last thing he needed right now. Why had he said a damn word? "Alright, step aside; let me have a look."

The inspector pushed through the few people crowding the dumpster and mounted a pile of rubbish bags to take a look inside.

His face blanched and he felt as if his heart had dropped into his lower intestine.

Beneath a bag of trash was a blonde man who looked to be in his forties, his eyes looking sunken and hollow, his skin clammy and pale, his figure frail, and his cream-coloured jumper torn and oversized.

The inspector could barely hear himself as he spoke:

"John?"

* * *

_'Bart's. Now. John.'_

Sherlock read those words over and over again as he screamed at the cabbie to drive faster; no speed would ever be fast enough.

The cab finally screeched to a halt in front of Bart's hospital, and Sherlock threw himself out the door and towards the hospital entrance, ignoring the curses thrown at him by the cab driver for forgetting the fare.

He flew through the front doors, shoved past hospital staff, and knocked over patients as he sprinted to the waiting room.

Lestrade caught him by the arm before he ran too far.

"Slow down, there," the inspector told him. "Calm down."

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked, sounding like a frightened child. "Where's John?"

"Being taken care of by the hospital," Lestrade assured him.

Sherlock's knees nearly buckled.

"He's alive," he sighed.

"Yeah..." Lestrade swallowed a hard lump in his throat and gripped Sherlock's arm tightly. "Sherlock, he was barely holding on when I found him."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from falling apart.

"I don't know if he's going to make it..."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and pierced through Lestrade's tired, brown eyes with his own icy heterochromatic ones.

"Don't say that."

"Sherlock-"

The detective gripped Lestrade's lapels and shook him.

"Don't even suggest it." His bottom lip visibly trembled. "He *will* be alright; he has to be." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "He needs to be."

Lestrade, hardly fazed by the taller man's outburst, patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't attempt to comfort me; you know it won't work."

"It doesn't hurt to try," the inspector said. "Why don't you sit down? Get some sleep; you need it."

Sherlock shook his head adamantly.

"Not until I see John."

"That may be a while."

"I don't care. I'll wait as long as I must."

And so they sat quietly in the hospital's waiting room, Lestrade himself balling up his jacket to use as a pillow and going to sleep.

They were there for a good five or six hours before a female doctor turned the corner and approached them.

And her expression looked grim.

* * *

_“Malnutrition, indefinite mental and emotional trauma, scarce signs of physical abuse...”_

The diagnosis rang clear in Sherlock's head as he stared down at his thin friend who, presently, looked a mere shell of his former self.

_“...strong indications of forced substance abuse...”_

Sherlock ran his slender fingers up and down John's left forearm, tensing at the feeling of numerous puncture wounds, some fresher than others.

He couldn't bring himself to speak; his throat felt tight and unfit for use.

"How are you doing?" Lestrade asked the detective with an involuntary yawn.

Sherlock visibly bristled at the question.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing; sorry."

Sherlock cocked his head at his flatmate and gripped the man's bony hand tightly. "Where did you find him?"

Lestrade tightened his lips and looked down at the floor.

"Just... I stumbled upon him."

Sherlock craned his neck and stared at the inspector.

"Where?”

"He was..." Lestrade sighed. "Moriarty; or at least one of his men; left him in a dumpster."

Sherlock's eyes clouded over with rage.

"What?" He released his hold on John's hand and stood up slowly. "A dumpster?”

Lestrade nodded.

"The bastard," Sherlock growled. "He just had his fun, finished his job, and dumped John in the trash? Left him to rot?!"

The detective's voice echoed in the small room.

"Sherlock, calm down," Lestrade told him.

"I will not calm down, Greg!" Sherlock looked back at John with sad, apologetic eyes. "This is my fault; all my fault."

"Don't blame yourself for this."

"I will because I *am* the one to blame. And now I must remedy the situation; I shouldn't have any trouble at all with that." He turned up his coat collar. "There is no power on this earth that will stop me from killing Jim Moriarty now." He sniffed. "None."

Lestrade stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"There's me."

Sherlock glared at the inspector.

"Sherlock, I'm not letting you run out looking for vengeance and get yourself killed," Lestrade said. "I'm not going to lose you now." He ran a hand over his face. "I think that might do me in."

Sherlock was visibly impatient.

"But Moriarty-"

"Is a son of a bitch that will get what's coming to him. But right now, you should stay here with John; I know you're the first person he's going to need to see when he wakes up; someone he really trusts."

Though Sherlock was eager to wrap his hands around the throat of his nemesis, John was of more immediate importance to him.

Reluctantly, he nodded in agreement, his murderous gaze disappearing and quickly subjugated by a broken frown.

"I'll keep you updated, okay?" Lestrade assured him.

"Mycroft is still looking too," Sherlock said.

"We're both running into dead ends, then.”

"Find another way around." Sherlock returned to his seat next to John and rested his hand on the bed. "And sleep; your appearance is objectionable."

"You could use some more rest yourself," the inspector responded. "Try to catch a wink, yeah?"

By this time, Sherlock had removed himself from the conversation and was focused once more on John, his own chest rising up and down rapidly.

There was no way in hell the man was going to let Moriarty go.

No one touched John and left unscathed.

No one.

* * *

Sherlock had his elbows propped on his knees, fingers locked together, and chin resting on his knuckles. He stared at John's unconscious form intently, unable to avert his gaze; this wasn't John. It couldn't be. John was supposed to be plump and pink and radiant; this man looked ashen. Dead.

But he wasn't dead.

Not his body, anyway. But the John Sherlock knew was.

"No," the detective said to himself, unintentionally out loud.

This was still John Watson; *his* John Watson. He had to be.

Sherlock put his head in his hands and let out a choked sigh.

"This is all my fault," he said. "I tried to find you, John; I truly did. Tirelessly." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes I do wish that we'd never met; if we hadn't, neither of us would have gotten hurt." He swallowed hard. "I don't like feeling this way; whatever you'd call this." He looked back up at John. "You know; of course you do. You always know."

As expected, the doctor gave no response.

Sherlock scoffed at himself.

"I suppose you'd find this rather hypocritical; me having a one-sided conversation with your unconscious self while having scorned others who've done the same." He tightened his lips. "I suppose I ought to be relieved that you aren't awake to chastise me. But really, I'd welcome that."

Again, all that Sherlock heard in response were the ominous beeps coming from the heart monitor.

"I am so sorry, John," he said, placing his hand on John's disconcertingly thin forearm. "There; I've said it. Now would you kindly stop this nonsense?"

Another beep from the monitor.

"Please, John."

As if he had heard the plea, John began to stir.

Sherlock's heart fluttered and he jumped up from his chair, bending over and looking hopefully at John's pallid face.

"John?" he said, hoping to encourage the doctor to rouse from his medically-induced slumber

The injured man's eyes flew open, and with a panicked cry, he threw a fist at Sherlock, catching the detective in the jaw.

* * *

"Let me in there!" Sherlock screamed at the nurse restraining him.

"We will in a few hours; but right now, we need to calm him down," she told the frantic detective. "He's likely hallucinating-"

"Obviously!" Sherlock pushed her aside. "He needs me; open the door.

"Sir-"

"Open the door," a calm voice commanded the young woman.

"Mister Holmes," the nurse nodded in the direction the voice had come from. "I am sorry, but I-

Mycroft held up his umbrella to silence her.

"I request that you open the door for my younger brother. Doctor Watson is of immeasurable importance to him."

The nurse sighed and obliged the older Holmes brother, opening the door and letting Sherlock inside.

"If anything happens-"

"He will," Mycroft answered.

With a shake of her head, the young nurse walked off.

Mycroft strolled into the hospital room after his little brother, the metal tip of his umbrella clacking rather authoritatively on the floor.

Without question, the doctors checking John's vitals finished their job and left the room, Mycroft shutting the door after them

Sherlock had quickly resumed his position beside John, making no mention of his brother.

"A 'thank you' might be in order, little brother," Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Go away," Sherlock hissed.

The elder Holmes smiled insincerely.

"You're quite welcome."

Sherlock stared sadly at his companion.

"He was frightened," he suddenly said. "He hit me."

"Well-deserved, I should think," Mycroft remarked.

"I've never seen him so afraid, Mycroft. It's unnerving."

"We can't all be like you; stoic and unfeeling."

"You're worse than I am in that regard."

"Like brother, like brother."

Sherlock brought his feet up onto the chair and rested his head on his knees. "But I feel something," he said. "I feel-"

"Concern, I'm sure.

"Guilt, I believe is the word."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Only _you_ could make a situation such as this revolve around yourself."

"Shut up," Sherlock growled. "I don't enjoy the sentiment.

"What have I said before, brother dear? Caring is _not_ an advantage."

"You know I never heed your advice."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"This might be a sign that doing so would prove useful on your side."

Sherlock burrowed his head in between his knees.

"Leave."

"I have an appointment, anyway," Mycroft shrugged.

The older brother looked at John, and his expression softened.

"Do tell Doctor Watson that I wish him well."

With no answer from the young detective, Mycroft left, the clacking from his umbrella fading the further he got from the room.

* * *

John woke again after three hours, his anticipated outburst hindered by the straps holding down his body.

"John," Sherlock soothed. "John, stop; calm down. It's only me."

The paralysing fear the detective saw in his friend's eyes broke his icy heart.

"John, look at me," he commanded the doctor. "Look."

"Please, just stop!" John sobbed. "I don't want any more; please! No more!"

Sherlock's blood boiled; whatever Moriarty had done to instil this kind of panic in his flatmate was rage-inducing. That bastard was going to get his comeuppance.

Bottling up his fury, the detective placed his hands on either of his friend's cheeks, firmly holding on.

"John," he said, "It's Sherlock."

The doctor's lost and helpless eyes looked in Sherlock's direction.

"No, it's not! It isn't! I know it's you!"

"Just look at me, please John," Sherlock begged. "I promise you it's me."

"It isn't!" John shook his head. "Shut up!"

With a deep breath, Sherlock slowly undid the straps around John, starting with the feet and moving to the doctor's wrists. Before his companion could land another punch, Sherlock caught his wrist, and then the other one when it came around.

"You always say I have ridiculously sharp cheekbones; one of a kind." Sherlock pressed John's hands to his own cheeks.

And he could have cried at how in shock his friend was.

"Sh... Sherlock?" John questioned, the name clumsily tumbling from his tongue.

Sherlock nodded and sat down on the bed beside the man, bringing his hands up to his scalp to allow the doctor to feel his thick curls.

"It's me."

Whether John was certain that what he was seeing was real or imaginary didn't seem to matter.

The doctor just began to sob uncontrollably out of pain, fear, and relief.

And as foreign as this type of situation was to him, Sherlock reached out and pulled John into a tight embrace, as if the action were almost instinctual.

"It's alright, John," he whispered, his own emotions quickly catching up to him. "I've got you; I'm here. You're safe."

And he vowed that John would stay that way.

Like a mother would her child, Sherlock rocked his broken friend back and forth, rubbing small circles on the doctor's back while holding on tightly. He was content with the prospect of never letting go.

As the hour ticked by, John eventually cried himself to sleep. Even through the man's worn-down psyche, he still had seemed to express embarrassment at appearing vulnerable and weak; but Sherlock thought nothing of weakness. Just of guilt and repose.

John had made it home alive, but there was an unfathomable amount of healing to be done. Sherlock was ready for the challenge, though; anything for his blogger.

But most preponderant was the pressing issue that was Moriarty.

A problem easily solved.

Blood would be shed.

 

 


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is incredibly long compared to the first part (I know). Sorry. I actually just finished it today.

"Mister Holmes?"

"What?"

"Did you hear me?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor standing before him and scoffed.

"Of course. What an absurd question."

"You must have a response, then."

"If my silence wasn't telling enough, then I am at a loss as to what the next step in the conversation ought to be. I'll admit, I have always been rather deficient when it comes to the act of social engagement, especially with the officious faculty members that one seems to find in every hospital on record in the United Kingdom."

"I would greatly appreciate it, Sir, if for once you wouldn't deflect my well-informed medical advice with your cynicism and misanthropy."

"We've known each other long enough at this point, Tabatha, that I insist you drop that ridiculous formality you have a habitual practice of placing before my surname."

"Very well, then." The doctor sighed. "Sherlock, it is in both John's and your best interest that I implore you: take what I said into consideration."

"No."

"A trauma therapist would be incredibly helpful, I am sure, in aiding John's mental healing process."

"He does not require the help of one."

"Sherlock..." Tabatha closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Sherlock, he is struggling immensely with basic human interaction. You know that. In fact, the only person he is comfortable in the presence of is you. I fear, however, that his boundless trust in and reliance on you is causing him to become clingy, for lack of a better word. Without you, he becomes fearful, as does an infant when he loses his pacifier. You are his safety blanket, Sherlock, and if you refuse him the professional help he really needs in favour of your own, he will not let go."

"He's coming home with me."

"He needs to learn to trust other people again."

"He trusts me."

"That isn't good enough."

"It is to me."

Tabatha gritted her teeth. Talking to this man was like trying to get somewhere on a treadmill.

"I realise that it is within your right as his next of kin to make these decisions for him at a time when he cannot, but I must urge you-"

"The very last thing my friend needs is a pitying psychologist forcing him to relive his trauma for the sake of the so-called "long-term". The person I trust the most to care for him is myself and myself alone. With that said, would you kindly give to me the necessary paperwork to check him out of hospital?"

Tabatha bit her lip.

"Would it be intrusive of me, in your opinion, to suggest attending one therapeutic session with him? That would be the logical first step to take, anyway; we wouldn't simply throw him into the deep end on the first day."

Sherlock grunted.

"He wouldn't handle the meeting well."

Tabatha smiled.

"As long as you're there, I'm sure he'll be fine." She flipped through the papers on her clipboard. "One meeting," she said, dropping them back in place, "That's all I'm asking for. If you don't find it to be to your satisfaction, then you don't need to attend anymore. Just stay in touch with me, alright? I want to know what your decision ends up being in the end. Whatever it is, I'll help you." Tabatha handed him a card. "You already know my number; that's the cell of one of the best trauma psychologists I know."

Sherlock squinted at the card.

"A friend of yours?"

Tabatha winked at him.

"My sister." She put a tentative hand on the detective's shoulder, and she felt the man's body tense. "Let's go to the receptionist's desk. We'll handle the paperwork there."

* * *

Sherlock stared at the card in his hand, the phone number calling out to him as a voice of reason.

"It isn't necessary," he told himself.

That seemed to be his repeated mantra. And yet, even he wasn't entirely convinced that he was well-equipped to take care of John's fragile mind on his own.

He heard the doctor toss a little in bed, and he looked over at him; the man's face was twisted into an expression of discomfort and panic.

Another nightmare.

Quietly, the detective approached his friend's side, placed his hand gently on the man's back, and began massaging it in small, soothing circles. In a short while, John was calm again.

_It isn't necessary. I can do this. I can take care of him._

John's breath hitched in his sleep, and he whimpered ever-so softly.

"It's alright, John," Sherlock soothed. "I'm here. It's alright."

_It isn't necessary. It isn't necessary._

Damn. This mantra wasn't working.

"Sh'l..."

"I'm here, John, I'm here."

Perhaps it was necessary.

With a sigh, Sherlock gently left his friend with a small but reassuring pat on his shoulder before stepping out of the room into the kitchen; he left the door slightly ajar in case of an emergency.

He bit the inside of his cheek, scrutinizing the written phone number.

_Perhaps it could be worth a try?_

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Xx

_'Call her._

_MH'_

Xx

Sherlock frowned. Of course Mycroft knew about this.

Xx

_'It isn't necessary._

_SH'_

Xx

_'You don't believe that. Neither do I. If John had complete control of his mental faculties, he wouldn't believe that._

_MH'_

Xx

_'Piss off._

_SH'_

Xx

_'Be smart._

_MH'_

Xx

The detective practically threw his phone across the table and ran a hand through his dark hair.

"Dammit," he swore under his breath.

He quickly walked over to where his cell had landed and snatched it up into his hand. He then dialled the given number.

_*"You've reached Doctor Winifred Mills' office. Due to the fact that your number is not an authorized number in our system, we politely request that you redirect your phone call."*_

"My number has been cleared."

_*"And could I ask who referred you to Doctor Mills?"*_

"Doctor Tabatha Russell."

 _*"I see."*_ The secretary cleared her throat. * _"One moment."*_

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the woman audibly set down the phone and walked away. What in the Hell was she doing?

He unpleasantly observed that the minute hand of his watch had moved its way from the six to the eight by the time he was put back on the phone with the annoying secretary.

 _*"Goodbye, Sir,"*_ she curtly said.

Sherlock felt a rage boiling inside him when a different voice picked up on the other end. This voice was far more soothing and lilted.

_*"You say my sister gave you my number?"*_

"Yes. And might I ask why a trauma psychiatrist such as yourself has decided to isolate herself from potential clients?"

_*"I only take clients I find interesting."*_

"Then clearly my friend is so, considering your sister bothered putting me in contact with you."

_*"That will be for me to decide."*_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Perhaps you were expecting my call. Are you familiar with Mycroft Holmes?"

Doctor Mills went silent for a moment.

_*"You're Sherlock, then."*_

"Obviously. And my friend-"

_*"Is Doctor John Watson, yes. He was the one involved with... yes. Brilliant. Bring him in this afternoon."*_

That was unexpected.

"This... this afternoon?"

_*"Yes. 14:57, if you will. Thank you. I'll see you both then."*_

And with that, she hung up.

That had been quite the peculiar encounter, even by Sherlock's standards.

"Hm," he grunted.

He hated how Mycroft always meddled in things. Calling ahead... typical.

* * *

Mycroft forwarded Doctor Mills' office address via email, and Sherlock found it to be curiously inconspicuous as the private car his brother had sent pulled up in front of it.

"This is it?" Sherlock asked. His hand was rested upon John's own on his chest, the doctor holding tightly to his purple dress shirt.

The driver nodded his head, motioning for the detective to step out with his friend.

"I see. Very good." Sherlock gently ushered John, currently whimpering softly, out of the car and shut the door. His companion flinched. "It's alright," he reassured him. "It's fine; just a door."

The two slowly stepped inside the lower floor of the building: the walls were florally painted in white and black and the floor was made of a firm black hardwood.

A secretary nodded at the two, her tight bun moving with her head, and pressed a button on her desk phone.

"They're here," she said. She then stood up from her chair. "Follow me, please."

They were then both escorted by the young woman into the room furthest end of the lobby and were then left alone with the door shut behind them.

Sherlock felt his friend trembling.

"It's okay, John. I'm right here."

The doctor simply dug his fingernails further into the silk of the detective's shirt.

"Punctual," a woman said, drying her hands on a white hand towel as she came out of a washroom around the corner. "I like it."

John's heart rate noticeably increased, and Sherlock wrapped a comforting arm around the man's waist.

"Doctor Mills, I presume," Sherlock nodded at the psychiatrist.

"Mister Holmes," she nodded. "Would you please take a seat beside Doctor Watson?"

Winifred Mills was a tall woman, only slightly shorter than the detective. Her blonde hair was cut in such a way that it barely touched her shoulders; it was incredibly fine, but some deliberate brushing gave it reasonable volume. Her thick glasses perched on her hawk-like nose and revealed soft blue eyes that revealed a notable level of curiosity and intelligence. The corners of her maroon-painted lips were only slightly turned up in an attempt to convey some level of amicability.

"While I can appreciate careful scrutiny, Mister Holmes, I must ask that we focus on our present appointment."

"Was I staring?"

"You were." She polished her glasses with a cloth hidden in her suit pocket. "I just decided I'd let you make yourself more comfortable. I understand that you might have found this process to be a bit out of the ordinary."

Sherlock held John's hand tightly to keep the doctor from having a panic attack.

"Why so selective?"

"Because there are plenty of psychiatrists out there who are capable of handling trivial mental ailments, war-brought Post Traumatic Stress Disorder being one." She replaced her glasses. "I am one of the few who can manage a patient having undergone abnormal suffering. Doctor Watson is certainly a case worthy of my skills."

"You're quite confident in your abilities."

"As are you. Don't be hypocritical, consulting detective." She sniffed. "Are you ready to begin? Or would you prefer to deduce me for a bit longer?"

Sherlock looked at John who had practically gone catatonic, and he sighed.

"Yes. Let's start."

"Good." Doctor Mills smiled and picked up the notebook beside her. "Now that we're working together, I would prefer that you address me as 'Winifred'. Formalities are a bit absurd, yes?"

Sherlock laughed humourlessly.

"Fine. I suppose you may use my first name as well."

"And I will use Doctor Watson's. Good." She opened up the front cover of the book. "Is it only in the presence of strangers that John clings to you, or is it during all hours of consciousness?"

"The latter," Sherlock reluctantly admitted.

"He trusts you then."

"He always has."

"You're a constant in his life, then."

"Perhaps. I've never really thought about it."

Doctor Mills quickly scribbled on the blank page.

"And he returned home about two months ago, correct?"

"Yes."

"And his stay in hospital? How long did that last?"

"One month, three weeks, and four days."

"Was he bedridden the entire time?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Is this really necessary?"

Winifred peered over the rim of her spectacles.

"It is to me."

"No," the detective relented. "I took him for walks through the halls daily. I wanted him to get well, not to be forced to laze about in bed."

"There is no reason to be hostile. I wasn't criticizing you." She took some more notes. "And how has John's communication been?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Sherlock?"

"Minimal," he answered. "Almost non-existent."

"Good," the woman said, earning a glare from the detective. "That means a challenge. I like challenges."

"John isn't a 'challenge'," Sherlock spat. "He's a human being."

"And one who will be a joy to heal." Doctor Mills quirked her eyebrow. "Let's get started."

* * *

*" _Don't be so childish, Sherlock."*_

"It was as if the both of us were the subjects of an interrogation, Mycroft. It was absolutely absurd. I refuse to take John to that woman again!"

The elder brother emphasized his sigh that followed in order to make clear his exasperation.

_*"Therapy does involve interrogation, brother dear. If questions aren't asked, the patient will not be prompted to give answers."*_

"I hate her."

 _*"The fact that you dislike her does not discredit her ability as a psychiatrist. As her sister told you in_ hospital _, Doctor Mills is perhaps the best."*_

Sherlock fiddled with the skull on the mantel, fingers anxiously hooking themselves onto the eye sockets.

"She was asking completely irrelevant questions, hardly taking any notice of John."

_*"It wasn't as if John was mentally present himself, now, was it?"*_

Sherlock looked down at the floor, still fuming.

_*"The process will be a long and arduous one. You have to be willing to give it time."*_

The detective softened his entire demeanor, defeat and sorrow evident in both his posture and tone of voice.

"I want John to be himself again."

_*"And he will be if you remain patient. Denying him professional help will only worsen his mental state."*_

"And what experience allows you to make such a testimony?"

Mycroft yawned.

_*"Trust me. Now, I have a dinner I must attend. I sincerely wish the both of you a good evening."*_

"Ensure that desserts are kept out of your reach. Your girth is already of an unhealthy size."

Mycroft groaned in irritation.

_*"Goodnight, Sherlock."*_

He was the first to hang up, much to Sherlock's relief.

There was a soft cry from the bedroom that immediately sent Sherlock into a silent panic, and the detective rushed to his companion's side.

"John? John, it's alright. I'm here."

The doctor appeared to still be sleeping, yet fitful due to what Sherlock could only assume was a vicious nightmare.

"You're safe, John."

_Why am I always so dreadful at this?_

He petted John's hair as tenderly as he could, but his own hands trembled at the sight of his friend in obvious mental and physical anguish.

"You're safe with me, John. I promise you, you're safe at home."

John was clutching his stomach, reaching to something he felt he had ingested, and he looked as if he were going to vomit.

"No, no, no." Sherlock swore under his breath and snatched up the waste bin from the opposite corner of the room. Holding it in his left hand, he moved John into a sitting position. And it was all just in time, for not a second before Sherlock lifted the bin to John's mouth did the doctor begin violently throwing up what little Sherlock had managed to feed him that day.

It seemed like ages before John finally ceased, shivering and quietly crying. Sherlock simply set the bin down upon the floor and held John in a gentle embrace, rocking him back and forth as he did that night in the hospital.

"It's alright. It's alright."

Such meaningless words. Of course it wasn't alright; John had practically ejected the very lining of his stomach into a tiny rubbish bin. It was the furthest from alright.

Sherlock sat for nearly an hour, eventually moving John from a hug to a childlike cradle in his arms. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

He desperately needed to locate Moriarty. He felt a red-hot rage boiling within him, and the only thing that could possibly quench it would be the brutal torture and slaying of Jim Moriarty.

_He's ruined this man._

Such a good, kind, and smart man, too, who in no way deserved such torment.

Sherlock felt something trickle down his cheek as he clutched his friend closely to his chest. Wiping it away revealed it to be wet and warm.

It was something he hadn't felt the touch of in a long time.

* * *

"You look absolutely knackered, dear."

Sherlock stared into his milky brown tea with a look of pure exhaustion on his usually lively face.

"Shrewd observation, Mrs. Hudson."

The landlady listlessly stirred her own cup and sighed.

"Did the therapist help him at all?"

"Results do not appear as if by magic. The process will take time." Sherlock hated when his prick of a brother was right, but he knew better. "John will be fine."

"I saw you clearing out a rubbish bin early this morning." Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Did he have an upset stomach?"

The detective, a bit nonplussed at the landlady's unusual perceptiveness, took a moment to collect his hazy thoughts in order to form a coherent response.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Then I do hope you gave him something to settle it."

"Why would I? The last thing John needs is more medication in his system. Besides, he wasn't entirely conscious while doing it."

"I could take a look at him."

"You'd only upset him. Strangers intimidate and frighten him."

Mrs. Hudson wiped her eyes a bit as she desperately tried to conceal her sentiment.

"I just feel as if I'm sitting here doing nothing while you're tending to him night and day. You haven't gone out of the house on your own in ages, dear. I honestly think you could use a case to ease the stress."

Sherlock watched the steam from his cup fade away as the tea succumbed to room temperature.

"Here is where I belong, beside John."

"I think the both of us should try and introduce him to his friends again. Since I live here, why don't we start with me?"

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"I'll help with everything the both of you could need. And having one more person around who John trusts would be incredibly helpful for you."

The detective sat in silence for a long time, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's slow migration from the kitchen counter to chair beside him at the table. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps leaving John with her might allow him to sniff out exactly where Moriarty was hiding, as opposed to sitting around and waiting for Scotland Yard to come up with something.

_They'll never find anything._

"I ought to consult John's therapist. Perhaps she might object to it."

The landlady tutted.

"Perhaps you're trying to keep me away from John. You're protective, dear, and that's completely understandable. You and John are alike in that you have trust issues. Always have been."

"I don't have trust issues."

"Yes you do. Despite what you may think, I'm not thick-headed. I can see right through you."

Sherlock tightened his lips and fumbled with his teacup's handle, not caring that the movement spilled some of the liquid onto the checkered tablecloth.

"Very well," he said. "Perhaps we can try at some point in the future."

* * *

"He's uncommunicative," Sherlock stated. "As I have said before."

"And his response to stimuli remains unchanged, I'm sure."

"Obviously." The detective crossed his arms. "He's only vaguely aware that I am present."

Winifred took some notes.

"And you say you've tried to acclimate him to your housekeeper's company?"

"Landlady."

"Same thing." The young therapist looked up from her book. "How has that been working out for you?"

"He's gone into conniptions, as expected," Sherlock sighed. "I did tell Mrs. Hudson."

"You act as if that annoys you when realistically, you'd be happy to be unburdened."

Sherlock stiffened.

"That isn't true."

"It is true. But boredom isn't to blame. It's your sense of vengeance."

"What?"

"You aim to locate..." she chose her words carefully, "...Him so that you may exact retribution."

The detective looked at his friend still clinging onto his arm.

"Were my motives that clear?"

"They were, and you know it." Doctor Mills removed her glasses and stared intently at John.

When Sherlock angrily questioned her actions, she held up her index finger to silence him.

"John has been unable to interact with anyone other than you for almost two months now. My objective is to change that during today's session." She monotonously began to address the paralysed doctor sitting in front of her. "John, my name is Doctor Winifred Mills, in the event that you missed my name. I am a trusted acquaintance of Sherlock's and am not here to harm you in any way. Look into my eyes and see that I am telling the truth."

John's eyes darted to the therapist's gaze but quickly retreated to the upper-right corner of the room.

"My name is Winifred Mills. I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman who lives alone in a small flat with her husky, Hotchkiss, and her red beta fish, Antony. My mother died when I completed my time at university and my father currently lives in Exeter with his two cats. My only sibling is my sister, Tabatha, who has decided, much to my chagrin, to pursue a life of domesticity. I might appear cold on the surface, but I do sincerely want to help you trust people again. If I thought myself untrustworthy, I would not have told you so personal a story. Look into my eyes, John."

This time, John's eyes stayed focused on Winifred's.

"I want to help you trust people again."

Sherlock, unbeknownst to himself, hadn't taken a breath since Doctor Mills had begun speaking. He hesitated to make a sound.

"I will not hurt you. Sherlock knows that. He will tell you."

The detective took his cue.

"She only wants to help you, John. I know that you can trust her."

John looked to Sherlock. Then he looked back at Doctor Mills.

And then he nodded.

Sherlock felt his heart flutter in his chest.

"I won't ask you to speak now, John, if you aren't comfortable yet with that idea. All I ask is that you nod 'yes' or 'no' when prompted with a question. Do you understand?"

The doctor nodded.

"Are you alright with that?"

He nodded again.

"Do you want to speak?"

He shook his head.

"Can you speak?"

He hesitated a bit before slowly shaking his head. His body seemed to tremble.

"That's alright, John. I don't want to make you uncomfortable." The therapist replaced her spectacles and crossed her legs. "Do you know where you are right now?"

Yes.

"Do you know who I am?"

Yes.

"Do you feel safe with me?"

A tentative no.

"Do you feel safe with Sherlock?"

An emphatic yes.

"Do you trust Sherlock?"

Yes.

"Good." She wrote down a few more items in her notebook. "I think we're done for now."

"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You've only just started!"

John winced at the exclamation, and Sherlock placed a comforting hand on the man's arm.

"And I'm nowhere near finished. But for now, we ought to take a break." Winifred closed her book and smiled at him. "Bring him by again tomorrow. Same time. We'll see if we can move on to verbal communication."

* * *

_'It sounds to me like its working well'_

_'*it's'_

Xx

_'What do you know? You work with the dead._

_SH'_

Xx

_'So do you'_

Xx

_'I don't trust that woman._

_SH'_

Xx

_'You just don't trust anyone who isn't you or John'_

Xx

_'That is entirely false. I trust Mrs. Hudson._

_SH'_

Xx

 _'What_ aboiut _me?'_

_'*about'_

Xx

_'Is that relevant?_

_SH'_

Xx

_'What about Greg?'_

Xx

_'Who is Greg?_

_SH'_

Xx

_'You need to start trusting people'_

Xx

_'If I simply start trusting everyone I come into contact with, I'll endanger lives, my own included._

_SH'_

Xx

_'You didn't trust people before and John still got hurt'_

_'Your plan clearly_ isn't fool _proof'_

Xx

_'Goodbye, Molly._

_SH'_

Xx

_'Sherlock wait'_

_'Im sorry'_

_'*I'm'_

_'Sherlock'_

_'Please'_

Xx

Why did he even bother trying to talk to anyone outside of himself and John? The two of them would get along fine on their own.

Doctor Mills encouraged him to engage himself in conversation, if only slightly.

He hated when he knew he was wrong. He didn't want to be wrong. Why couldn't things just work out? Why couldn't he just have his way?

"John?" He approached the frail doctor in his chair and knelt in front of him. He looked into the man's eyes and begged him to look back at his. John obliged. "John, can you see me?"

The doctor nodded.

"Are you frightened?"

No, he wasn't, and he quickly affirmed this silent trust with a hand covering and holding tightly the detective's hand.

"Will you let me make you dinner?"

John had not touched a real dinner in ages. Sherlock had simply fed the man nutrients through a needle when he couldn't convince him to manually consume something of substance. The detective had been trying to reintroduce his friend to solid foods so as to avoid upsetting his stomach, but John rejected the gesture each time.

"John? Will you let me feed you something to make you feel better?"

The doctor shrugged indifferently.

"I will not force you to eat."

John nodded.

"But I do ask that if I'm going to feed you, you don't spit up on me. You know how much I love this shirt."

John blinked, his face blank and his eyes tired.

"Joking," the detective teased as he twitched the corners of his mouth into a small smile. "How does chicken soup sound to you? Good?"

Another nod.

"Fantastic. I'll fetch it for you."

It was a relief to have John calmly down the spoonfuls of soup presented to him. And to Sherlock's delight, he finished the bowlful without much of a hassle. This nuanced form of communication was incredibly effective.

"John?" Sherlock placed a hand on top of the doctor's, prompting immediate eye contact. "You remember Doctor Mills?"

The doctor nodded.

"Please tell me, John: how do you feel about her? Would you feel alright in a room alone with her?"

This seemed to stir a panic, as John rapidly shook his head 'no' over and over again. He wrapped his arms around his companion's chest and continued to shake his head. Sherlock felt the man's breathing quicken.

"It's alright, John. I won't leave you alone. I'll be with you whenever and wherever you need me. I will always be by your side."

John choked back a sob and buried his face in the detective's soft shirt. Sherlock hugged him back, gently stroking the area between his shoulder blades.

"I love you, John."

The declaration was involuntary. Even Sherlock wasn't quite sure if it was he who had said those words in such earnest.

I love you.

What did those words even mean? He supposed the meaning was entirely subjective, aside from the general sense that the phrase had a sentimental connotation. And upon some brief deliberation, he decided he meant those words. A part of him knew that he always had.

"I love you," he said again, this time squeezing his friend closely to his chest.

And almost too quietly for him to hear, John responded.

"Me too."

* * *

"Things are going well?" Doctor Mills asked. She wrote something else down in her notebook.

"Yes," John said.

Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

"Yes, things have been marginally better."

Winifred arched her eyebrow so that it rose above the rim of her glasses.

"Marginally?" She stared at the two men. "How are the nightmares?"

"Not as violent," Sherlock attested.

Winifred cleared her throat.

"John?"

John nodded.

"They've been less bad. Sherlock's with me."

Doctor Mills wrote in her notebook.

"Trust issues are still a prevalent issue, I perceive."

John shrugged, prompting her to press the matter further.

"How are you feeling, John? About people?"

"They're people."

"If I were to place you alone in a room with a complete stranger, would you be more likely to strike up a conversation or to attempt an escape from them?"

John didn't seem to like that idea.

"I like you. I like Sherlock. I like Mrs. Hudson."

"How about Inspector Lestrade? You know him, correct?"

Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Don't press the matter, Winifred."

The therapist held up a finger to shush him and maintained eye contact with John.

"John?"

"Yeah," the doctor nodded. "I know him."

"'Do you trust him?' is my question."

John shrugged.

"Dunno."

"If you were alone with him, how would you feel?"

"Scared," John admitted.

"What if Mrs. Hudson were with you?"

"Better."

"With Sherlock you'd feel most at ease, I'm assuming."

John nodded silently.

"Right." Doctor Mills' pen dashed rapidly across the pages of her notebook, and she shut it after finishing her thought. "John, you're doing considerably better. You are able to speak to and engage with others you trust, which is leagues beyond what you were capable of just last month." She sighed. "But back to the issue of trust-"

"Which is a common theme, I'm noticing," Sherlock grumbled.

"You need to expose yourself to uncomfortable- potentially frightening -situations if you are going to regain your ability to interact properly with the people around you. You must learn that not everyone is plotting against you. People aren't really all that sinister. There are only a few malicious seeds that get thrown into the garden, if you understand my meaning."

Sherlock and John merely stared at her.

"Just a friendly recommendation," Mills said. "Let's call it a day, shall we?"

* * *

"How hungry are you?"

"Not very," John said.

"Chinese? Italian?"

"I'm okay."

Sherlock placed his fingertips beneath his chin and stared at his companion with the utmost scrutiny.

"You've barely regained the weight you lost."

The doctor shrugged.

"S'okay."

"It's not," Sherlock sighed. "I would like you to eat, John. Please. For me."

John bit his cheek and stared at the floor.

"Would you eat a plate of pasta?"

John shrugged.

"At least half?"

After some thought, John nodded.

"Okay."

The detective, please with his friend's capitulation, shrugged on his coat and ruffled his hair as he readied himself for their outing.

"Come, John," he said. "I'll be beside you the way there and back. Don't fret."

John stayed seated.

"John?"

"I'll stay."

Sherlock seemed surprised by the response.

"Pardon?"

"I'll stay here. By myself." The last words were clearly forced and hurt the doctor as he said them. But it was clear he meant them. "S'okay."

"John," Sherlock placed himself in a squatting stance in front of the man and looked into his eyes, "Are you quite sure? If you don't feel safe-"

"I'll be okay," John insisted. "Just go."

Sherlock sighed and nodded.

"If that is what you wish, then so be it. But in the event that you feel frightened by my absence, take this." Sherlock dug a coat button out of his pocket; it had fallen off of his collar a few weeks before John had been kidnapped, so he'd carelessly thrown it in his pocket before he and John left for lunch.

"Do you remember this, John?" Sherlock asked him.

The doctor allowed a small smile to creep onto his face.

"Mhm."

The detective placed it gently on his open palm.

"Keep it with you. I wouldn't wish you to feel alone without me here."

John nodded.

"Thank you." He reached out and wrapped his arms around his flatmate's neck. But another burning question caused him to pull back and look worriedly at his friend. "You're coming back, right?"

Sherlock almost laughed.

"Why on earth wouldn't I?"

"Dunno," John swallowed. "Just… please come back." He squeezed the button tightly in his hand.

Sherlock planted a friendly kiss on top of John's head.

_This is what people do when they care deeply for someone, yes?_

"I promise that I will be." The detective smiled down at him. "Would you like me to send Mrs. Hudson upstairs to keep you company?"

John pondered the idea for a second and nodded.

"That would be nice."

"I'll take care to do that, then," Sherlock said. "I'll return very soon."

When Sherlock returned, all was as it should have been, and then some. John was smiling and laughing- _laughing_ -with Mrs. Hudson over a cup of tea. They were having a small conversation concerning the landlady's former cat and were acting as if nothing had ever happened to spoil John's spirit.

"I've brought dinner," Sherlock said.

John jumped a little in his chair, nearly spilling his tea.

"Oh," he sighed with relief. "Hey."

"Hello." The detective smirked. "I noticed you two were talking. So sorry to interrupt."

Mrs. Hudson was grinning so widely that Sherlock was sure her lips would split open.

"It's no trouble at all, dear." She stood up, set her now empty cup down on the end table, and brushed off her dress. "I ought to return to the kitchen, anyway. I have dishes I must wash if I want to have my breakfast on a clean plate."

Sherlock looked at the floor momentarily.

"If you would like," he stopped her in her tracks, "you may stay and eat with us."

"Oh," the landlady chuckled, "It's fine. You only brought dinner for two-"

"Three."

"Hm?"

"I brought you dinner as well. If you're interested."

John looked back at him and smiled softly.

"That's kind."

Sherlock winked at him.

"I do try."

Mrs. Hudson placed her hands on her hips and clicked her tongue.

"Well, it would be rude of me to turn down such a generous invitation. And a shame as well; this instance is rare with you, Sherlock."

The detective shrugged.

"I was feeling particularly generous this evening." Sherlock cleared the table of the (surprisingly very low amount of) glassware and began unpacking the food. "Chicken parmesan, Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady had helped John into a seat at the table and smiled.

"That sounds lovely."

"And for you, John, I brought lasa-"

There was a loud _thump_ downstairs, bringing silence down upon the room like a torrent of rain.

"That would be a package, wouldn't it?" Mrs. Hudson remarked.

Sherlock turned his head sharply in the direction of the door leading to the stairs.

"Yes. But deliveries don't occur so late in the evening." He looked at John and bit his lip. "I'll return shortly."

Upon reaching the parcel lying in the foyer, the detective noticed a note neatly taped on top.

'Heard from my little tweety bird that your pet is doing well. I wanted to leave him a little present.

XOXO Jim'

Sherlock frantically jumped over the box and threw open the front door just in time to see a car turning off the street.

"Damnit!" he swore.

Why didn't he move sooner?

He ran back inside, nostrils flaring wildly, and he began tearing open the box. He dug through layers of packaging peanuts before finding what horrifying "gift" had been left to himself and John:

A hypodermic needle with a smiley-face sticker on it.

There was another note beside it.

'"My name is Mr. Pointy! Johnny and I got to know each other really well. Hopefully, you and I can too!"

P.S.: You boys be careful when sharing needles. ;)'

Sherlock threw the needle and the note back in the cardboard box and furiously began sealed it tightly.

He desperately wanted to erase all of it from existence.

All of _this_.

John timidly came down the stairs and over to the detective. He placed a tentative hand on the man's shoulder.

"You okay?"

Sherlock quickly swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep breath.

"John…" he sighed.

He stood up and took John into his arms, pressing his head against his shoulder.

"Oh God, John," he whispered.

"What?"

The doctor began to nervously tremble.

Mrs. Hudson ran downstairs and stopped when she saw the two men standing in an awkward embrace.

"What happened?" she asked worriedly. "Sherlock?"

_I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry._

He'd touched the same needle that was used to hurt John. His John. Jim had used _that needle_ to harm _his John Watson_.

"Sherlock, you're hurting me," John said, squirming in the detective's smothering hug.

"Oh God," Sherlock jumped back. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean to hurt you. I would never do so on purpose."

Mrs. Hudson gave the man a queer sort of look, and John rubbed his arm bashfully.

"S'okay. Just… what's in that box?" John's eyes begged Sherlock to tell the truth. Because he trusted him; he trusted him to always tell the truth. "Tell me. Please."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Don't worry about it, John. For both our sake, please don't worry."

John tightened his lips and nodded. Somewhere among his clouded thoughts and memories was the knowledge of what was in that package. But he didn't try to dwell on it.

"Okay," he agreed. "Okay. It's okay."

Sherlock was breathing heavily, and his fists were clenching as fast as his chest was moving.

"Sherlock," John said, "It's okay." He swallowed. "I promise. _I'm_ okay."

The detective looked into his kind brown eyes, noticing a twinkle that he hadn't seen in quite a few months. It was comforting, and he felt himself calming down.

"Sherlock, please explain to me what's going on!" Mrs. Hudson demanded as she crossed her arms.

John gently grabbed Sherlock's hand, and the detective felt his small button resting in between them.

"Can we please go eat dinner now?" John asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Okay."

* * *

Sherlock woke to John tossing and turning beside him. He had quickly learned how to remedy these fits ever since John had started his therapy. Tiredly, Sherlock sat up and inched John into his lap. For twenty minutes he sat with his friend, petting his hair slowly and reassuringly until the doctor drifted back into a peaceful sleep.

_"My little tweety bird". What does that mean?_

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.

_Stop it. Stop thinking about it. Just stay here. Stay with John._

But that note! The first one… he knew it meant-

"Traitor," Sherlock whispered.

A little bird.

' _A little bird told me…'_

That was a saying. An idiom.

Someone was working with Jim. Someone he knew.

"Doctor Mills," he growled.

He quietly strode out over to the dresser and began changing his clothes.

There was hell to pay tonight.

* * *

He easily picked the lock to the lobby. Though he noticed Mycroft's damned CCTV camera pointed in his direction, he simply flipped his middle finger up at it and forced himself inside the building. All was deathly quiet, and Sherlock felt slightly uneasy, even if he was sure that Mills was there. She was the type of woman who felt at home in her office.

He gripped John's Browning tightly and moved to Mills' office in the back, creeping past the secretary's oak wood desk, heels softly thumping on the floor.

_I've got you…_

He reached again for his lock picks in his back pocket at the office door when the lights suddenly turned on in the room.

"You know, Sherlock, breaking and entering is a felony."

He turned around and simultaneously pointed the gun in Winifred's direction, only to notice that she had one as well aimed at his chest. She was dressed in a short black slip, robe, and slippers and held a glass of brandy in her other hand.

"Though this isn't desirable, I must say that this isn't the rudest awakening I've ever received." The doctor lowered her weapon and took a sip of her drink. "Looking for something?"

"I've found it," Sherlock said, the gun's hammer clicking as his thumb effortlessly pressed down upon it.

Winifred's smiled waned quickly.

"I'm sorry?"

"You lying whore." It was certainly a needlessly plain and vulgar insult, but Sherlock felt it the only thing that could match the rage he felt inside of him. "You picked John because Jim told you to."

Mills cocked her head and her brow furrowed intensely.

"I'm not sure I-"

"You've been sending him your notes, telling him about John's progress in healing. He wants to know so that he may figuratively tear away John's stitches in the most painful way possible."

Winifred looked incredibly confused.

"Sherlock, I swear to you that I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

The detective desperately wanted to pull the trigger, but he could see in the therapist's eyes that she was sincere.

This was not the person he was looking for.

Angrily, Sherlock lowered his gun and scratched the back of his neck with the nose of it.

Setting her glass down and tightening the band of her robe, Winifred gestured to her office.

"Care for an early morning session?"

* * *

Doctor Mills took a sip of brandy and set it on the table beside her chair, replacing it with her notebook.

"No," Sherlock told her. "I'm not one of your patients."

With a motion of surrender, the therapist placed the book down beside her and neatly placed her hands on top of her thigh. Her legs were tightly crossed, so as to keep her short nightgown from exposing her underwear.

"You know, Sherlock, you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble by going to your brother first."

The detective's piercing stare cut through her like a knife.

"There wasn't any time." His middle finger impatiently rubbed the inner side of his thumb. "How do you know Jim?"

Mills scoffed.

"Referring to the point you made earlier, I am not one of your clients."

"Winifred, you are going to tell me the entire truth, or I will not hesitate to shoot you under the belief that you have betrayed myself, my companion, and the oath of confidentiality that you took as a psychiatrist."

Winifred removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Okay." She replaced her spectacles and nodded, eyes wide open and focused. "Fine." With a sigh, she began. "Five years ago, I was in my second year of postgraduate study at Cambridge University."

"What were you studying?"

"Criminal psychology," she responded. "And, if I do say so myself, I excelled at the subject. I was, as they say, at the top of my class. I was mid-way through my second term when your brother came to meet with an old colleague of his; my professor, Cyril Brook. I was told that they had talked a great deal about me and the dissertation I had written the year prior, and, long story short, Mycroft asked if I would be interested in studying a case for him. He told me that he was very impressed with my breadth of knowledge and opinions on the subject of psychopathy, and he requested that I observe a man by the name of Jim Moriarty. He said he was eager to see what I could do with him."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Why on earth would my brother consult a university student on the corrupt nature of a criminal?"

"I can only assume it was an experiment. Either that or he wished to take me under his wing and make me his pet psychological consultant."

"Having lived with him for an unfortunately lengthy amount of time, I hypothesize it was the latter," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"So I started meeting with Jim," Winifred continued, "Once a week for an hour; our meetings always took place on Sunday. Jim insisted. He never said why, but I was sure it was because church services are held on Sunday."

"He clearly wasn't keeping you away from God."

"It wasn't personal. He just doesn't fancy the idea of respecting a fictional omnipotent being; he prefers to believe himself to be the highest power."

"How shocking." Sherlock adjusted himself in his chair. "Continue."

"An hour a week doesn't seem like much, but it was enough to start affecting me in ways I could have never anticipated."

"Please elaborate."

"It became increasingly difficult to focus on psychoanalysis. After the first meeting, Jim seemed to always find a way to turn the conversation around on me and talk about my own state of mind. A part of me realized exactly what was happening, but it was as if he had thrown me into a trance with his charm and manipulation. I tried to stop engaging him, but I was drawn to him. I didn't want to be; it simply happened."

"He has that way with people like yourself."

The therapist glared at him.

"What convinced me to cease all interaction with him was our twelfth time together. We had had a variety of very intimate discussions at that point, and I almost looked forward to our session. I did look forward to it, in fact. I made a half-hearted attempt at acting professionally, but once again, we got talking. And then something compelled me to stand up from my chair and cross the physical line separating me from the glass that confined him. An impulse… I don't know of what sort."

"Sexual?"

"Perhaps. I have always struggled to understand myself if I'm going to be completely honest." Winifred shook her head. "But I stepped forward; Jim did so too; and we stood at opposite sides of the glass, staring at each other. I noticed a particular deadness in that man's eyes that I have never before seen in a criminal. The moment was spellbinding." She swallowed. "And then I put my hand up to the glass. And he laid his overtop mine. When I realized what I was doing, I stumbled back and demanded that Mycroft release me from the room." She nervously fixed her nightie and took another sip of alcohol. "He didn't object to my desire to stop the sessions."

Sherlock, both intrigued and disgusted, drummed his long fingers on the arm of the chair he sat in.

"So," he said, "This event soured your interest in criminology and you instead pursued a dull career as a trauma therapist."

Winifred sighed.

"The realization that I could so easily be seduced by a man so devious as Jim Moriarty caused me to worry that further involvement in the field would result in injury to my loved ones."

Sherlock noticeably winced at the remark.

"You have loved ones?"

The therapist was visibly irritated.

"My family. I might be at constant odds with them, but I do care about them."

"Your friends as well?"

"Other than Darla, I really don't have any."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Who?"

"My secretary. You haven't learned her name?"

Sherlock's eyes shot wide open and he jumped up.

"Winifred, who has access to your notebook?"

She stood with him, thrown off by the abrupt change of pace.

"Me. It is always safely locked in the drawer of my desk. Only I have the key. Only I know its location."

"You and a nosy secretary."

"What?"

"Darla, Doctor, Darla! Your so-called "friend"."

Winifred vehemently shook her head.

"Darla has no notion of my book's location."

"She might if you one evening drank too much and got careless."

Doctor Mills' face blanched and she pushed her quarter-full glass of brandy away from her.

"I-"

"Where is she?"

"Darla?"

"No, the King of England," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I mean Darla! Where has she gone?"

"On a date," Winifred shrugged. "She said she met a man through an online chat and-" She stopped. "Oh my God."

"Yes?"

"A colleague. A few months ago she received an email from an "old online colleague" of mine. I insisted that she ignore it, but… oh dear God, it was Jim. It was Moriarty. He must have-" She frantically picked up her black notebook and threw it open. "Sherlock, this isn't my notebook," she said, her voice but a mere whisper. "She took mine. She's been posing as me. Jim's been flirting with her and so she's pretending to be me. She's taking my notebook to him."

Sherlock gripped his hair tightly and took a deep breath.

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No," Winifred stated, having gone completely rigid. "If we break into her computer we could find something."

"I doubt you know her password."

"No, I don't. But I have a few guesses."

Fortunately, two was enough. It saved Sherlock the effort of time-consuming deduction. Rifling through email after email led them both to discover a large compilation of old messages spanning over a few months. They saw professional discussions that were intentionally set up by the sender (presumably Jim) to be easy for anyone who wasn't an expert in the general field of psychology; a veritable fly trap for a gullible and single woman who wasn't averse to playing pretend. Before finding what they were looking for (the address of the café in which the two "lovers" had met that night) they were forced to navigate through painfully flirtatious exchanges and pet names...

_Boring boring boring…_

John.

_John._

All references to John's "condition"; his "questionable emotional stability" and "terrible mental trauma".

How dare this…

_Harlot!_

...woman practice such indiscretion! More importantly, how dare this damned doctor trust such a moron!

"You are clearly an incredibly insecure person," Sherlock sneered at the doctor beside him. "You would rather blindly assume a pre-existing friend's intellectual capability than potentially lose their companionship." He stood up and flipped up his coat collar. "This is why I'm cautious in trust; I manage to avoid such betrayal."

Winifred gripped his arm tightly, her manicured nails feeling as if they might tear through the fabric.

"It's not her fault," she said. "She's lost everyone in her life, Sherlock. I'm perhaps all she has. We're alike in that."

Sherlock seemed to let these words fly out the other ear; his hands began to tremble.

"John," he choked out. "I need to go home to John."

"I'll contact your brother," Winifred said, having already pulled out her mobile. "I never call him. He's sure to answer."

_No time. I must get to him before Jim does._

"Try to text Darla," Sherlock said as he started for the door.

"Sherlock, it's 2:30 in the morning. She's a veritable Rip Van Winkle."

"What?"

Winifred shook her head.

"Forget it. She won't respond."

"Just do it."

Before the doctor could stop him, Sherlock was already out the door looking for a taxi.

* * *

Desperately, Sherlock tried getting his brother on the phone while concurrently attempting to locate a cab. Meanwhile, Winifred clutched her robe tightly to her chest, despite ensured security from its knotted belt.

"Sherlock," she said, "I'll get Mycroft on the phone. You find a cab."

The detective reluctantly left his female companion to her own devices and ran down the street and around the corner.

_John, John, John… please, be okay. Let him be sleeping safely at home._

Who was he begging?

To his relief, there was a cab sitting on the opposite side of the road. Its light was off, and the driver was smoking a cigarette while sleepily sipping what Sherlock could only assume was a cheap cup of coffee.

"Hey!" the detective shouted, waving his arm. He dashed over to the parked car and knocked on the window.

The driver waved him off and pointed at the roof, communicating to him that the light was, in fact, off.

"I need a ride to Baker Street!" Sherlock yelled.

The driver turned on the car's ignition and rolled down the window.

"I am not in service at the moment," he huffed. "Try down aways."

Sherlock decided that pleading eyes were desperately needed. It wasn't as if he needed to force them.

"Please," he implored him, "I need a lift to Baker Street."

The driver began shaking his head when he took notice of Winifred quickly running up behind Sherlock.

"No he doesn't," she said. "We need a ride to Chelsea." Before Sherlock could question her, she shoved her mobile into his hand. "Your brother," she said.

The cabbie took a moment to look at her, taking in the sight of her short lingerie-esque gown, robe, and slippers and softly nickered.

"Get in," he sighed.

With an acknowledging glance at the therapist beside him, he opened the back door and slid in, Winifred following him and shutting it behind them.

"You're going to the Chelsea district then?" the cabbie asked the woman as he began moving the car away from the curb. "Anywhere, um…" he looked at Winifred's' clothing again, "...special?"

While she gave him the address, Sherlock put the phone to his ear and was immediately met with an exasperated utterance of his name.

*" _Sherlock-"*_

"Mycroft shut up! The cameras in our flat: check them."

Mycroft responded first with an irritated grunt.

*" _I have. John is fast asleep."*_

"Are you sure? Have you examined him thoroughly? Is he _breathing_?"

*" _Yes, Sherlock. He is perfectly fine. I have been keeping a constant watch on the both of you if that is of any comfort to you."*_

Sherlock breathed an immense sigh of selfies and shut his eyes as he did so.

"How much do you know about our current situation?"

*" _Doctor Mills has told me that you broke into her office and threatened her with a gun. Of course, the break-in was clearly recorded on the camera observing you, Sherlock. Thank you for that wonderfully profane gesture, by the way. And she also told me that you've both got a lead on Moriarty."*_

"How did that lead escape _you_?"

*" _We are a lawful government, Sherlock. We can't monitor email exchanges. That would violate public privacy."*_

"And observing their every movement through thousands of cameras on the street doesn't?"

The detective's brother groaned.

*" _So you're on your way to Chelsea, I hear. Is that where you have both decided Moriarty's hidden?"*_

"Doctor Mills' secretary lives in a flat there," said Sherlock, the realisation hitting him in that singular moment. He looked at Mills who nodded solemnly. "Jim has situated himself there for me to find him."

Mycroft's breath hitched.

*" _Sherlock, wait for backup. I'll send Lestrade and my own men to your location."*_

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said. "Focus on John. Keep him under your watchful eye. Make sure that he is safe."

*" _Certainly, brother dear. I wouldn't dream of disappointing you."*_

"Your sarcasm has been noted and subsequently unappreciated."

*" _I wish you the best of luck, brother."*_ Mycroft sighed. * _"Do be careful. John would prefer that you stay alive, I'm sure."*_

"You are indifferent to my survival, I presume?"

*" _You're trying to coax me into admitting something with that tone. It won't work. Goodbye, Sherlock. And again: good luck."*_

Again, Mycroft was the first to hang up, and Sherlock handed the phone back to his companion.

"How are you feeling?" Winifred asked, her voice sounding hoarse.

"I'm not quite sure. To quote you, I've always struggled to understand myself."

The therapist allowed herself a small smile, but her wringing hands detracted from its sincerity.

"I do hope for your sake that Darla is alive," Sherlock said.

"If she isn't, do you plan to kill me?" Winifred dryly quipped.

"If she isn't, I anticipate observing your emotional ruin." Sherlock rubbed his neck. "I would hate to see an intelligent woman such as yourself be destroyed by such a terrible instance."

Mills laughed.

"Intelligent? I allowed _this_ to happen. Apparently, I've got two brain cells: one is in a wheelchair and the other is pushing. I deserve to have my license revoked, or at most killed."

"That isn't true. I do still find you to be beneath me in respect to your intellectual capacity and at times intolerable; the latter is true in this moment, your secrecy having only just been dissolved an hour ago. And perhaps you would be tempted to write in your little black book that I still have trust issues." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure it isn't just John's progress you've been taking note of."

Winifred looked shamefully down at the floor of the cab, eyes fixating on the toes of her slippers.

"So I don't trust you. Perhaps I never will. But I find you to be an insightful psychiatrist, and it would be a woeful thing for your wisdom to be snuffed out like candle light by the death of a woman you so dearly care for. What you find appealing about her is beyond my understanding, but I imagine that she is to you what John is to me."

"A lifeline?"

Sherlock looked out his window.

"That is one word one could use to identify it, yes."

Both sat in an awkward silence, both ruminating on their recent conversation and restlessly anticipating the events that were inevitably about to unfold. The cabbie, meanwhile, drove onward to the Chelsea district, hoping that his payment would ultimately make wading through the city's late-night traffic worth it.

London was an absolute nightmare.

* * *

Sherlock was rarely thrown into a position of being the sluggish one, but tonight he fell behind Winifred. It seemed as if reaching the apartment complex in which her friend lived was enough to trigger an emotionally desperate response to the danger said woman had unknowingly put herself in. The detective was quite thankful that he managed to reach the door before it had completely shut; Winifred was, after all, the only person he knew with a key.

"Doctor Mills!" he cried, hardly caring if other residents were woken. "Winifred!" He cursed and continued to climb the stairs.

Arriving on the third floor, he heard the therapist's frantic knocking on Darla's door, calling her friend's name.

"Please, Darla" she begged. "Please!"

After what seemed like an eternity, a woman with tousled bed hair pulled open the door. She squinted through her tired eyes.

"What the hell do you want at this hour, Freddie?"

It was clear that both therapist and detective were not expecting the secretary to answer the door. Alive and well. Nevertheless, Winifred grabbed her by the shoulders and began checking her over.

"Are you alright?"

Darla, extremely disgruntled, shoved off her friend and crossed her arms.

"Freddie, what the hell are you doing here?" she whispered angrily. "It is 3:00 in the morning and you're…" she rubbed one eye, "Why are you in your nightie?"

Winifred brushed off the question.

"Is there a man in your flat right now?"

"That's not-"

"Tell me!"

Darla scratched her head when she spotted Sherlock.

"What is Mister Holmes doing here?"

"You and I need to leave now. Grab my notebook and come downstairs with me."

Darla blushed.

"How did you know that I have your notebook?"

"I'll explain later. Right now, there is an extremely dangerous man in your flat right now. And he knows you aren't me."

Darla's face only became redder.

"I don't-"

"Darla, come on!" Winifred took her friend's arm and pulled her into the hallway, giving Sherlock room to go into the flat and poke around.

"Winnie, there is no one in my flat!" Darla hissed.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"What?"

"I… I told Peter the truth before anything could happen. I felt so terrible about lying to the both of you." Darla nervously twisted the ends of her hair.

"That wasn't Peter Whitfield, Darla. There is no such person as Peter Whitfield," Doctor Mills informed her.

"What?"

"There's only Jim Moriarty," Sherlock interjected.

Darla clasped her hand over her mouth and choked.

"No," she said. "Please tell me-"

"You've just put sensitive information into the hands of a madman for the sake of wetting your sex-hungry beak," Sherlock sneered. "I came here to put a bullet in Moriarty's head, but yours will suffice."

Winifred placed herself in front of her friend, arms spanning out to their full length.

"Sherlock, no!" she shouted.

The detective clenched his fists and closed his eyes.

"I was being facetious."

"It's hard to tell with you sometimes, your emotions are so unpredictable." The therapist let out a relieved rush of air and placed her bony hand on Darla's shoulder. "Did you give him the notebook?"

The young secretary was wiping her eyes furiously as she tried to keep her tears at bay; she was terribly embarrassed and frightened.

_Good._

"No," she swallowed. "But I did let him see it."

"How much?" Sherlock approached her like a predator. "How much did you let him see?"

"I-"

"Now!"

"All of it!" Darla sobbed. "I let him see everything. He… he took some notes."

Sherlock thrust his hands upon his face and kicked the door frame with the side of his foot.

"Sherlock-" Winifred tried in vain to calm him down, but his rationality had surrendered itself to his thirst for revenge.

"Where did he go?" the detective spat out. "Did he say?"

"H-he said…" Darla shook as she struggled to breathe.

"Out with it."

She wiped her nose.

"Something about a d-delivery, I think?"

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock growled, shuddering at the recent memory of 'Mr. Pointy'. "Just that? Just a delivery?"

"That's all h-he said."

"Useless," Sherlock muttered. "Winifred, perhaps it would be best if you were to find a friend whose primary response to pressure isn't incapacitating crying."

"Sherlock, for God's sake," Mills snapped. "I know that you're angry right now, but you have got to keep it together. For John."

Sherlock felt his spine tingle at the mention of the good doctor's name.

"Yes," he relented. "For John."

"It's almost dawn. I suggest you return home and go to bed. There isn't much else you can do now." Doctor Mills ushered her companion inside the flat. "I'm going to call her down."

After the door was shut in his face, the detective felt his wall begun to crumble.

_I was so close. I was so, so close. Practically two steps away from catching him and I let him slip through my fingers._

He stumbled down the stairs, the knot in his throat growing to a suffocating size.

_I'll never find him. He'll never let me. John… I'm so sorry, John. Oh God… John…_

There wasn't going to be any retribution tonight. Perhaps not ever. And Sherlock had to go home to his friend- so fragile and so apprehensive -and try to carry on.

More of those frustrated and unpleasant tears began to stain his cheeks as he walked out the door into the frigid air.

The other residents, he had failed to notice, still slept soundly in their beds despite the ruckus he had caused.

* * *

"Where'd you go?"

Sherlock froze. He was hardly anticipating John being awake when he snuck in. He expressed this surprise with a whispered: "Good morning."

He gathered the strength to move again and sat down on the bed beside his flatmate.

"I'm sorry. I had an emergency." He brought his legs up to stretch out on the soft mattress and laid a hand on top of John's head. "I'm here now."

"What emergency?" John asked.

He'd clearly been having an anxiety attack, given the sweat on his forehead and his quavering voice.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock lied.

"Lestrade needed me for a case."

"Lestrade?" It had been ages since John had spoken to the inspector, and so the name was said with a particular distance; it was as if John was trying to recall memories of the mentioned man. "Oh. What case?"

Sherlock noticed that his friend's knuckles had turned white from the grip on what he could only assume was his coat button. He sighed and placed his hand overtop John's.

"Something silly. If you will recall, the inspector is not particularly skilled at handling even the most trivial of incidents."

"Hm." John cleared his throat in an attempt to sound much stronger than he was. "Promise you aren't lying to me."

Sherlock's fingers pressed into John's hand.

"You can trust me, John," he said. "Now, won't you go to sleep? I won't leave you."

He felt his eyelids beginning to droop, the exhaustion of crying and of running around catching up to him quickly. Without another word, he and his partner fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

"You've already been drinking tonight," Darla remarked. "Maybe you should lay off of the wine."

Winifred simply clinked her glass against her friend's and began sipping, red wine washing over her lips and painting her already coffee-stained teeth.

"I won't be prepared to speak to him without having ingested some alcohol. I might light a cigarette or two in order to keep myself calm."

"Freddie, no. My neighbors have already willingly endured that dreadful shouting match. To force them to accept the inhalation of your second-hand smoke would be crossing a line."

"Oh, send them gift baskets," the therapist scoffed. "They already weren't going to be satisfied with your 'thanks'. What's a little smoke?"

The assistant remained adamant.

"No."

"Fine." Winifred tapped her fingernail on the glass so that the sound was the only noise in the room before Darla spoke again.

"I really hope this worked," Darla sighed, swishing her wine around in her glass, watching as it left droplets of grape-red liquid upon the sides. "He really was frightening."

"Who? Sherlock or Jim? Because in my opinion, they're both incredibly caustic when it comes to their emotions."

Darla sniffed and scratched her scalp.

"Either." She let out a shaky sigh. "I feel terrible."

"You did wonderfully for the job you were given," Mills said, sitting down beside her. "I'm sorry you were made a part of this."

"It was scary, but it was exciting." Darla allowed herself to smile. "I've never talked to a real criminal before. Not like you."

Winifred laughed once- it was a quiet and dry laugh.

"You did bring my notebook back?"

Darla nodded wordlessly and handed her partner the notorious black book. It looked practically untouched.

"Jim was really convincing. I thought at first I'd really thrown the whole operation; he looked like a professor. Spoke like one too."

Winifred's phone began to ring and she wasted no time in answering the call.

"Well, I certainly hope this all paid off in the end," she spat into the phone. "Sherlock left a mess and Darla's currently quaking in her boots."

*" _He is in custody, Doctor Mills. I am quite relieved this was as successful as it turned out to be."_ Mycroft could be heard shifting some papers around. _"You must have been incredibly convincing to have fooled my brother."*_

"I apparently was." Winifred took an angry sip of wine. "But not gladly so. No wonder the man has trust issues, Mycroft. You spend most of your time lying to him."

*" _And now you've been a part of that routine. Congratulations."_ Mycroft yawned. _"Do give Darla my thanks. She did marvellous work. And I am not one to simply give compliments away."*_

"She'll be honoured, I'm sure." Winifred raised an eyebrow. "So what? The plan now is to ship Jim off to Serbia and hope that that's where his reign of terror ends?"

*" _All of that carried out with careful supervision and following strict procedures."*_

"It won't end. You'd be stupid to think that it will. Jim is just playing a game of hide-and-seek with you. You let him run and counted to ten, he hid for a while, and then you found him. Now it's his turn to count to ten. Serbia is simply the corner he's facing while you run and hide."

Mycroft sat for a moment, leaving the air tense with worry and frustration.

*" _It is what it is,"*_ the man finally said. * _"If a game is what he wants to play, then I will play it as long as I possibly can."*_

"Sherlock's playing too."

*" _This round will offer him some respite while he tends to the needs of both himself and Doctor Watson."*_

"Sherlock won't want to rest until he's found where Jim is."

*" _He'll have to."*_

"He will eventually find out the truth, and I'll be the one he takes his frustration out on."

*" _I am aware of that inevitability, and I promise you that I won't let him get carried away. As long as you practice discretion, we can delay that event's happening."*_

Winifred clutched her glass tightly.

"I'm not sure if I can continue to see him and John with the burden of this secret, Mycroft. I've kept enough from them already. So to advocate trust seems…" She swallowed. "Dreadfully ironic."

Mycroft sniffed.

*" _You've done enough. The choice is up to you now, whether or not you wish to continue being their therapist."*_

The doctor set her wine glass on the wooden coffee table and stood up from the sofa, leaving the stiff figure of her friend who sat with bated breath as she strained to listen to the conversation.

"And I am choosing the 'not'." She turned to Darla. "And I think we're quite finished with you. And London as a whole, really. We might give France a try for a while."

*" _I will finance your emigration, if you would like me to."*_

"No. After this conversation, I don't ever wish to speak to you again." She seemed to be formulating a plan already. "I'll contact Tabatha and let her know where I'm going."

*" _I understand."*_

While trying to come to a tacit understanding through eye contact with Darla- who was quite alarmed at the sudden mention of uprooting -the therapist thought of Mycroft's poor brother and felt her heart ache.

"This operation has likely done more harm than good as far as Sherlock's emotional stability is concerned," she lamented.

Mycroft's hesitated before responding.

*" _Sacrifices do sometimes need to be made."*_

Mills remained on the line with the elder Holmes brother as she thought some more, and she felt her palms become clammy with sweat as puzzle pieces began to fit into place.

"Mycroft," she whispered, "Please tell me that John's abduction was not a part of your scheme to find Moriarty."

The man hung up with a hasty * _"Goodbye and good luck"*_ before another word was said regarding the matter.

And all Winifred could do was angrily throw her phone against the back seat cushion of Darla's sofa.

* * *

Months passed by slowly, and Sherlock never received another word from either John's therapist or her dreadful secretary. He could only assume that their arrangement had made things particularly awkward and that Winifred had decidedly moved on. Despite a lack of professional help, Sherlock still did his best to work with John, helping him to communicate and to become less dependent on the detective's presence; the button did seem to help tremendously with the latter.

John returned to a healthy weight, the colour had returned to his cheeks, and he was laughing and talking more often than he ever had before. The track marks on his arm faded away with the needle in the box- when Sherlock burned the parcel, it was as if the syringe had never existed at all.

There had been no word from Moriarty, despite the confirmation that he had everything he could possibly need or want on not only John, but also Sherlock (the detective assumed, given Mills' nosy nature). And despite his desire for revenge, Sherlock felt oddly at peace with the fact that for now both he and John- especially John -were safe.

He would not let Moriarty get far if he were to show his face in the future.

_For now, there is nothing I can do. Be calm. Stay here. Stay strong. For John._

_For John._

It was new chapter; a fresh start for both himself and the former soldier.

And for once, it seemed that everything was going to be okay.

Christmas came around, and John requested a small party.

"Are you sure?"

The doctor nodded, filling in the answer to another hint of his crossword- it was a hobby he had taken up in order to keep his hands and mind occupied.

"If you wouldn't mind." John set down the paper and picked up his cup of tea. He stood up and walked over to the doorway to the kitchen and leaned on its frame. "It's just been a long time since I saw everyone together, you know?"

"Right." Sherlock, having been tuning his violin, set his instrument back in its case and turned around to face his friend. "Are you quite sure that the experience won't be overwhelming?"

"My sister might like to see me. Mike too."

"Perhaps a card…"

"Are you nervous about having people here?" John asked with a solemn smile.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head.

"I'm nervous for your sake."

"Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. H, Harry, Mike…" John took another sip of tea and furrowed his brow in thought. "Your brother, right?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"And we should invite Doctor Mills."

Sherlock was thrown off by the sudden mention of the name.

"It didn't occur to me that you might remember her, it's been so long."

John chuckled.

"I might have been in a bad place, but I can remember my bloody therapist's name."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "Why do you want to invite her?"

"Because she helped me. She helped _us_." John licked his lips and sighed. "Dunno. I just think she would appreciate an invitation. We never thanked her."

"She's a therapist. She doesn't need to be thanked."

"Without her, Sherlock, I wouldn't have the confidence to talk to you right now. I might still shake every now and then. And sure, the nightmares haven't completely disappeared. But she helped me jump an enormous hurdle that even you- in all your Sherlockian glory -could not have pulled me over." John smiled. "That's not to say that you haven't been the one holding my hand this whole time. I just think it good to acknowledge a job well-done."

Sherlock stared at his doctor, head slightly cocked to the right and lips curled into a bemused smile; his eyes expressed both uncertainty and agreement. The detective, however, was desperate to continue to act stubbornly.

"Mycroft told me she relocated to another country in search of a change of scenery. Besides, we haven't talked with her in a long time. I doubt she even remembers you."

"I know she remembers me."

"How?"

"Because I'm Sherlock Holmes' best friend."

Sherlock would have tried to debate him on this particular point, but he couldn't deny the truth.

John was only relevant because of him.

"Well," the detective said, looking for a return to the initial discussion, "you're sure you would like to host a Christmas Eve celebration?"

John grinned.

"Yes."

And he returned to the kitchen to finish both his tea and the daily crossword. Sherlock, meanwhile, felt a knot in his stomach as he picked his violin up again. The poor thing was dusty as all hell, having been sitting idle for nearly a year- he never had the urge to play until John asked him to only half an hour earlier.

"Any preference of song?" Sherlock asked. "Christmas or otherwise?"

John narrowed his eyes at the clue in front of him and racked his brain for the response.

"How about," he said distractedly, "Oh, I don't know. You pick. When you pick it always sounds better."

Sherlock smirked.

"Very well."

He recalled a favourite of John's and decided that it would be most appropriate.

The bow felt natural balanced at the tips of his long, skeletal fingers, and the motion of playing felt all the more so to his spirit.

"Is that, um…" John snapped his fingers as if the action would result in the immediate recollection of the song's name. "The Little Drummer Boy?"

Sherlock paused to nod and then resumed the tune.

John sat still for a while and listened, wearing a peaceful expression with lightly closed eyes. As Sherlock finished, the doctor leaned back and quietly sighed- it was a delicate and relaxed release of air. He picked up the crossword again and tightened his lips at it.

"Twelve letters; repose," he read.

Sherlock brought the bow down to his side and took a deep breath.

"'Tranquillity'."


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this story totally needed an epilogue.

A woman with blonde hair cut to the shoulders slowly drank her cup of coffee, her maroon lipstick staining the rim of the shallow mug. She took notes in a sleek black notebook as she read through the various articles bookmarked on her laptop computer. Her bony hands busied themselves- one handled the pen, the other fidgeted with the handle of the coffee cup. And when the waiter passed by her with a cart of sweet pastries, she raised her idle index finger and requested a slice of lemon pound cake en français. The cake and the coffee seemed unaffected by the mild autumn weather, and it seemed that she could spend forever seated at that tiny sky-blue table, shields from the clouded rays of the golden afternoon sun. Yet a woman waited for her at home with an eager appetite for kisses and for companionship; it was only this that motivated her to complete her day's work and hurry back to the small apartment on La Rue de Turenne. Her sharp grey eyes were fixed on her computer like an owl's on its prey, and a smile played on her thin lips. She felt positively serene.

Her laptop, however, was abruptly closed by a person who had seated himself across from her, and her gaze focused on him.

Jaw hanging slightly open and pupils having practically dilated to the size of her irises, she stared at him in awe as he helped himself to a piece of her lemon cake.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Mills. I do hope I haven't interrupted anything important. In case your vacation made you forgetful, my name is Sherlock Holmes." The detective leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. "I simply had a few burning questions that I need answered. And you will give me answers."

He gave her a sarcastic sort of smile, his lips gnarled in such a way that the corners of his mouth turned down and his pink lips turned white from their compression.

"Can I trust you to do that for me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm done. Thanks for reading, everybody. Please leave a like and a comment (no pressure though)!
> 
> ~rosetyler39~


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